


qui necopinanti nunc tibi forte venit

by spikenard



Category: Dreamer Trilogy - Maggie Stiefvater, Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: CDTH spoilers, Canon Compliant, Comfort Sex, Denial, M/M, light kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:22:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21799822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikenard/pseuds/spikenard
Summary: …which now comes (as luck would have it) to you, who didn't see it coming.
Relationships: Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Comments: 24
Kudos: 258





	qui necopinanti nunc tibi forte venit

**Author's Note:**

> hello! wrote this bc it’s finals season which means cool-down time from papers = time for fun writing. ronan pov bc i would rather not get jossed re: what’s Going On with adam, but by rights this should be adam pov fic; it is about ronan being loved. set immediately after chapter 39 of CDTH, ending before ch41 starts. 
> 
> summary is a loose translation of the title! in ch. 41, Ronan quotes sulpicia 8 (smith) / 14 (lowe) / 2 (mahoney), the first of two poems about sulpicia missing her boyfriend on her birthday. title is from the poem immediately following that one (9s/15l/3m), in which sulpicia finds she can see her bf, after all.

scis iter ex animo sublatum triste puellae?  
natali Romae iam licet esse suo.   
omnibus ille dies nobis natalis agatur,   
qui necopinanti nunc tibi forte venit.

###

“Jesus, Parrish,” Ronan said, finally, as the cold drained from Adam’s skin. Holding him. 

Adam made a small noise, nose pressed into Ronan’s collarbone. He rubbed his face against Ronan. His eyes were closed, but he didn’t look relaxed. What Ronan could see of Adam’s face between his own shoulder and Adam’s dusty hair was pinched, exhausted, miserable.

“I’m okay,” Adam said. “I’m—” and he was pushing at Ronan’s shoulder, then, a flurry of movement. 

“Hey,” Ronan said, because he wasn’t, Adam obviously wasn’t okay. He tightened his grip on Adam, kept him close. Adam stopped pushing and leaned back against him, a little huff of frustration but his mouth pressed against Ronan’s chest, over his shirt. Over his heart.

“I have to go soon,” Adam said. “We don’t have that much time—” and Ronan had to laugh, holding Adam, like this wasn’t enough. Adam was smiling, then, less frantic, less rattled. “Let me,” Adam said, his hand crawling down Ronan’s front to the hem of his shirt. Ronan put his own hand over Adam’s, trapping it against his shirt. He kissed the shell of Adam’s ear, his hair, kept his arm firm around Adam’s narrow back. “Alright,” Adam said, turning his face to brush his mouth over Ronan’s. “Alright.” And he let Ronan hold him.

###

They sat like that until Adam’s watch beeped when the hour changed. By then they’d relaxed, Adam puddled against Ronan’s side, his good ear pressed into Ronan’s ribcage, his fingertips just barely scritching over the hair on Ronan’s belly, where he’d let Adam push his shirt up just barely enough for him to touch it. Ronan had hauled Adam up the bed, which wasn’t made; he knew Adam didn’t care, but if he’d known Adam were coming — for his birthday — he would have made it. The dip in his mattress wasn’t quite wide enough to hold both of them, pressing them closer together, familiar and intimate. 

Adam’s leg was over Ronan’s, cradling a thigh between his own. When his watch alarm went off, Adam hummed, and stretched.

“When do you have to leave?” Ronan asked, hating the thought of it, loving Adam so much it nearly terrified him to ask, the emotions blending into a single fierce question. He could tell the sentence came out sharp.

Adam yawned, and pressed his forefinger and thumb against his eyes, rubbing hard. “Mnn,” he said, muzzy and sounding how Ronan imagined he’d be hungover. “Time’s it? Got— should be on the road by… four thirty, five,” and he was answering but he was turning against Ronan too, pressing closer, rolling on top of him, pushing at Ronan’s shirt. “Said I was gonna take your clothes off first,” Adam said, voice low. “Got time for that.” 

“Quit it,” Ronan growled, not unkindly, batting at Adam’s greedy hands. “You’re fucking bleeding,” he added, and Adam’s bewildered expression made him laugh.

“It’s fine,” Adam said, because it was; it wasn’t a bad cut. Ronan wouldn’t have given him a bad cut. It wasn’t great, but it had been better than the alternative: it wasn’t a bad cut. Adam’s blood was drying tacky on his hands, where Ronan had been holding onto his hand and wrist and arm. They’d both touched worse. 

“Stay put,” Ronan said, and flung himself out of bed. He pointed at Adam, who rolled his eyes, curled into the warm spot Ronan left behind, and Ronan’s heart seized, a useless pang. Adam in his bed, tired face and bruised legs under his blankets. Stay, Ronan wanted to say, looking at him. Stay with me. I need you. He would never say it. 

Ronan went to the bathroom and washed his hands twice. He’d put the gun down here when they went upstairs, on top of the toilet because he hadn’t wanted it in the room while Adam was scrying. He stared at it as he wiped his hands dry. He would have to find the talon knife in his room, later. 

He ran water over a washcloth and opened the medicine cabinet, and got out rubbing alcohol, cotton swabs, bandaids, gauze. The usual. This was routine. He clambered back into bed on his knees, hands full, half-kneeling over Adam, straddling him. Adam had his injured arm pressed against his chest, his eyes closed. He opened them to Ronan, and put his free hand on Ronan’s thigh, white knuckles digging in.

“Here,” Ronan said, reaching for Adam’s arm. Adam let him take it, let Ronan wipe the blood away. The cuts were thin, deepest at Adam’s wrist and clawing up to fine needle-scratches curled around the boney jut of Adam’s elbow. They didn’t bleed much as Ronan wiped them off, disinfected them. Adam let him, his eyes on Ronan and Ronan avoiding his gaze, Adam’s other hand still rubbing at Ronan’s thigh. 

“There,” Ronan said, his mouth against the back of Adam’s hand. He’d stuck a bandaid over the worst of the cuts and taped it down with gauze. 

“You’re not my nursemaid,” Adam said, and fumbled his hand onto Ronan’s face. Ronan pressed his cheekbone into Adam’s palm and looked down at him, finally. 

“You’re so full of shit,” Ronan said. “I’m a regular Florence Nightingale over here,” and tipped his mouth to kiss at Adam’s scraped wrist, over the gauze. 

“Your bedside manner—” Adam said, and Ronan fell on him, pressing Adam’s scraped wrist against the headboard and not letting go until Adam gripped it, then bending to pepper kisses all over Adam’s face: the faint freckles still clinging to the bridge of his nose, the chapped corner of his mouth. 

“Bedside manner’s fantastic,” Ronan said, into the dip behind the bone of Adam’s jaw, and licked there to hear Adam moan, to make him squirm. Adam’s hand tightened on Ronan’s thigh, Ronan still sitting on top of him, and Ronan reached down to interlace their fingers over his own thigh. 

“No complaints,” Ronan added, “Unless you’re complaining?” as he tugged Adam’s other hand up to the headboard, too. 

Adam exhaled, slowly, and let go of Ronan’s hand. He held onto Ronan’s headboard, his hands each wrapped around one of the metal bars there. Ronan sat back to look at him, watching Adam’s throat bob as he swallowed. This was always hard for him, strange and new for both of them, but Ronan loved it, and loved how much Adam loved it — enough to let Ronan do this for him. 

Adam looked gorgeous like that, spread out and vulnerable. Ronan ached for him, Adam trusting him with this. No one before Ronan had seen Adam like this; they’d never talked about it, and they didn’t need to, but Ronan was sure. It was a gift. 

Ronan shifted back onto his heels. He was sitting on Adam’s thighs, like this, pinning his legs down. Adam was wearing a dark button-down shirt, something unfamiliar like the rest of his new style. He’d rolled it up to his elbows before scrying, but there was still blood on it. It would probably stain. The fabric was soft under Ronan’s hands as he worked the tiny goddamn buttons out through stiff buttonholes. Adam lay back, was laying back, watching Ronan work. 

“I’m not complaining,” Adam said, as Ronan finally pulled his shirt out of his pants to get the last few buttons open. Ronan couldn’t stop watching Adam: the way he gave a whole-body shiver when Ronan unbuckled Adam’s belt and slid it out through his belt loops, the way his knuckles whitened when Ronan’s fingers brushed his skin, Adam’s hands on the headboard, Adam’s hands. That he was leaving them there, letting Ronan do this. 

“Obviously,” Adam added, and his voice was choked. “Obviously not complaining,” and Ronan cheerfully ignored him. He knew. Adam knew he knew. He was hard, and Ronan wasn’t touching him. Ronan wanted to touch Adam more than he wanted anything, but Adam loved this, loved it slow, and he’d gotten Ronan to love it too. So Ronan didn’t touch Adam, or open his fly. As slow as they could, with three hours before Adam had to get back on that bike, and nearly all that time gone already. 

“Shh,” Ronan said, and bent to kiss the knob of Adam’s collarbone, the dip underneath the bone, to nudge Adam’s shirt aside and suck lightly at the faint raised scar next to Adam’s armpit. He smelled like himself, there, the woodsmoke and leather jacket hung up by the front door: this was Adam’s cheap detergent on his too-nice shirt, his familiar deodorant. His sweat. Ronan licked his own fingertips, too, messily, and slid his hand into the other side of Adam’s shirt to rub at his nipple. It was already pebbled up when Ronan’s fingers found it. 

He rubbed, exactly the way that drove Adam too-wild when they were fucking, that’d kick Adam over the edge if he was trying to hang on until he was good and ready, and Adam let him even though Ronan hadn’t even touched him yet, didn’t arch away or bat at Ronan’s hand or protest. Adam groaned, instead, and said “Ronan,” voice helpless already. Ronan bit down over Adam’s ribs, scraped his teeth over the soft skin of Adam’s stomach and side and kept working his hand on Adam’s nipple and he could feel Adam tremble for him. Ronan felt unspeakably wild, unbearably tamed. 

“I’ve got you,” Ronan said, and Adam groaned and arched against him, trying to buck his hips up, get some friction going against his pants. 

“Yeah,” Adam said, a breathless whine as Ronan popped open the buttons on his fly so he couldn’t pull that sneaky shit. “Yeah. You’ve got me.”

Ronan sat up, and had to kiss Adam, had to press his front against Adam’s and tilt their mouths together, had to press his dick into Adam’s hipbone and get his hands into Adam’s hair, pull gently until Adam was groaning and straining at the headboard hard enough to make the bed squeak, a little. Ronan kept rubbing until he went off in his own ripped jeans, stupid — he’d really meant to stretch it out but he fucking couldn’t, how could anyone expect him to. He bit Adam’s shoulder to ride it out, panted hard.

“Happy birthday,” Adam said, and Ronan said, “Fuck you.” His heart was bursting.

Ronan sat up and pulled his own shirt off, flung it across the room, pulled Adam’s hands off the headboard to pull his shirt off as well — his landed in the hamper, a victory which Ronan barely noticed in the dizzy haze of watching Adam put his hands back over his head, look at Ronan with his eyes burning, pants lying open over the V of his hips, framing his cock. Ronan never fucking wanted to stop kissing him, couldn't get back on top of him. He wanted to see Adam.

They couldn’t talk, after that, though after a few minutes they were breathing into each other’s mouths more than kissing. Ronan was impatient, lying next to Adam on his side so he wouldn’t fall against him, doing his best to slow down, Adam doing his best to let him. Ronan touched, greedily: Adam’s chest, his ribs, not touching his nipples but thumbing over Adam’s hip bones, rubbing at the fair hair on Adam’s chest and belly, snapping the waistband of his underwear to make a frustrated flush come up in Adam’s cheeks. 

“Ronan,” Adam said. He was so hard. Ronan could see a wet spot forming in his underwear, and didn’t touch it, and didn’t touch him, and didn’t touch. Ronan thought he was going to go insane. He wanted to see what Adam would do, if Adam would say his name like that again. He didn’t wrap his hand around Adam’s cock, jerk him raw; he didn’t turn Adam onto his belly and touch him until he opened up; he didn’t get his dick into Adam; he didn’t make him scream loud enough to drown out whatever had happened when he scried; he didn’t suck Adam down so deep Ronan would feel it, be hoarse for days. He wanted that too badly. It felt like it would break his heart to have it, when Adam left, when Ronan would only get this much. 

Ronan didn’t touch Adam like that. Ronan just touched him. He ran his fingers from Adam’s elbow down to his armpit, watching the skin goose-pimple, hearing Adam’s breath go shallow; he ran his finger up the inseam of Adam’s pants, from where his knees were parted, Adam spreading them further in the futile hope that Ronan’s hand would land where he wanted it. It didn’t. Instead Ronan dipped his fingertip into Adam’s navel. He flicked a nail against Adam’s nipple, rubbed it with dry fingers and let Adam whine — it only electrified him when Ronan’s fingers were wet, or when he used his tongue, which Ronan didn’t do. 

“What do you want?” Ronan asked, softly, and bit Adam’s good ear, sucked at the earlobe. 

“Come on, Ronan,” Adam said, almost writhing. “Need you. Need to feel you.” 

Ronan kissed his ear again, and then Adam’s mouth. He didn’t do what he wanted to do. He put his hand over Adam’s mouth. They were making eye contact, and Adam’s eyes were sharp, present, not the dazed glass with nothing behind them they'd been earlier, scrying. He licked Ronan’s palm, and then did it again. Ronan drew his hand away and slid it into Adam’s briefs. 

Ronan jerked him slow, wet, the way that usually drove Adam crazy with impatience, had him gasping, which once or twice had gotten a choked _please_. This time, though, Adam just sighed, tension bleeding out of him. He kissed Ronan, lazily, when Ronan bent their heads together, didn’t strain: just came apart, perfect, cracked open and his heart in Ronan’s hands. 

His dick in Ronan’s hands, too. It felt good, fucking perfect, like it always did, with Ronan’s hand wrapped around it, thumb rubbing gently at the head the way Adam liked it. Adam was pliable, relaxed as Ronan ever saw him. He licked Ronan’s hand again, when Ronan held it up, and then didn’t protest when Ronan had to stop entirely a few minutes later, to dig around on his mess of a nightstand for some lube. He just pressed his forehead against Ronan’s shoulder and panted for air, groaned softly against Ronan’s mouth when Ronan got back to it, let Ronan drive him absolutely mindless with pleasure, let Ronan feel how Adam felt about him. 

Ronan felt him getting closer but neither of them was chasing it, Ronan wasn’t pushing him to go over. This was how he wanted to have Adam: sweet in his arms, aching for him, mouth slack against Ronan’s. Adam shivered, then, and bit down hard on Ronan’s lip, hard enough that Ronan tasted blood, and spilled all over Ronan’s hand and his own belly. Ronan stroked him through it, still slow, still gentle, hand sticky with Adam’s jizz, until Adam started to make soft noises against Ronan’s mouth, until the muscles in his belly and thighs were jumping hard enough that his knee knocked Ronan’s. 

Ronan wiped his hand off on Adam’s chest, and let Adam recover. 

“Thanks,” Ronan said. It wasn’t what he wanted to say.

“Shut up,” Adam said, and finally let go of the headboard. His arms must have been stiff: he winced as he took Ronan’s messy hand in his. Adam brought it to his mouth. 

They lay there, in silence. The sun was going down.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to izzy and jones for last-minute beta! 
> 
> if you enjoyed this fic, you can also reblog it on [tumblr](https://berniefeinman.tumblr.com/post/189676912229/).


End file.
